Moaning Malfoy
by RedStalkingDeath
Summary: Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. Season 4, round 3. "Moaning Malfoy."
_The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition – Season 4, Round 3_

 _Team: Pride of Portree_

 _Position: Chaser 3_

 _Prompt: Pride_

 _Word-count bracket: 1201-1500_

 _Word-count: 1206 (+2 for the title)_

 _Optional Prompts:_

 _3\. (dialogue) "Sometimes I really dislike you."_

 _4\. (word) varnish_

 _13\. (word) faithful_

* * *

 **Moaning Malfoy**

It was official, he would never live it down.

The Mudblood was probably laughing her head off right now, imagining him on his knees doing manual labour, a task not befitting a wizard of his status in the Pureblood Society. He really hoped she would choke on her stupid tongue. Or bite it off with her enormous rodent-like teeth. Or, better yet, that her bushy hair turned on her and decided to choke the life out of her, or something, he thought, almost with glee at the possibilities. Of course he could not even be actually gleeful, with the school his father practically owned, being run by filthy muggle-lovers and blood-traitors.

He'd simply been minding his own business, quietly going over the day's chapter in _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ —naturally, he'd read the whole thing during the Summer break, in preparation for that year's studies so he could _finally_ surpass the Mudblood's grades. His father would hardly tolerate another failure at coming out top of the class like the year before, _especially_ if he lost it to a _Mudblood_ —when the Transfiguration Professor had announced her decision to partner up the students herself, with no regard whatsoever to who they were and what they wanted. And guess who had she decided he had to work with for the next few weeks? The bloody, bushy-haired sidekick of Potter, of course.  
Draco would never lower himself to associate with such filth, so he had loudly and vehemently told them all that he refused to work with a Mudblood. But of course, McGonagall, being the head of her house, decided to put _him_ in detention. _Stupid Gryffindors!_

"My father will hear about this!" the platinum blond boy sneered to himself, as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned his nose up at the polishing equipment he was meant to use on the various old medals and pocals filling the room, his tone practically dripping with anger and contempt towards the old professor.  
He was going to get the barmy, old hag fired if it was the last thing he did. He couldn't believe anyone— except Potter and his gang, that is, but everyone knew they had no manners anyways—had the gall to treat him like that, with such a level of disrespect. "Expecting a _Pureblood_ to do the work of a common House-Elf!"  
Yes, the old hag had the atrocity to order him to clean the dirt collected on _dirt_ , and that too without the use of magic. As if he were some lower-breed animal. These people were not even worthy of speaking the name 'Malfoy' with their dirty tongues, and yet they were daring to order him about! Had they forgotten who his father was?

In the hindsight, it might not have been his brightest idea to blurt, or more like _shout_ out a word like that right in front of a teacher—it's not like he didn't know it was frowned upon by certain people—especially when that teacher was McGonagall, of all people, but he had been taken by surprise; he was completely unprepared for the indignity of her request.

The consequence of his rash words was a night wasted in detention, which he was spending complaining about his unfair treatment to his friend and housemate, Blaise Zabini. The other boy hadn't actually done anything to deserve the punishment he'd been bestowed upon, but had been dragged into the mess purely by association. He'd just been standing at Draco's side—an innocent bystander, so to speak—when his friend had caused a scene in the middle of the Transfiguration classroom over his assigned work partner. McGonagall, having been at the other end of the classroom with her back turned at the time of the blond Slytherin's loud protests and badly chosen words, had assumed Blaise had been in on it all as well. Blaise didn't see any point in drawing any more unwanted attention to himself—especially with the temperamental Transfiguration Professor—by arguing the case of his innocence.

Draco's faithful friends—or perhaps bodyguards would be the right term to use—Crabbe and Goyle had avoided any trouble this time, for the simple fact that they had been late for class; it was right after lunch, they'd still be busy stuffing their faces with the last remnants of the food before the house-elves made it disappear, and weren't even there to witness his dramatic display.

Was it too much to ask for: to receive the respect he deserved, was _entitled_ to, as the sole heir of the ancient and noble House of Malfoy? He was born into a family with a name that should demand respect from one and all, wherever he went in the world. And by 'world' he meant the Wizarding World, of course. The Muggle World didn't count—after all, no one expected cattle to recognise royalty from peasants.

Draco kicked his bucket of cleaning supplies, causing some of the water to splash out over the floor, staining the shiny varnish of the old floorboards. He stepped back with a curse as his shoes got wet, and turned up his nose in disgust. If he raised it any further towards the sky, he'd fall over backwards, Blaise silently mused to himself with a barely stifled snort of amusement at the mental picture he'd conjured up, as he continued scrubbing a particularly dirty part of an old, golden pocal from some Gobstone competition.

He could not even understand why the hell had they kept mementos dating back right to the Founders Era in the so-called Trophy Room. It wasn't as if anyone ever came to see all the shiny medals kept here. But no, trust the old crackpot Dumbledore to keep all of them in store, or how would they hand out detentions to the students?

Whether or not he was _capable_ of doing the work didn't have anything to do with it, he shouldn't _have to_ do it at all in the first place. It was all so far beneath him, he shouldn't even be aware of its existence.

Even if there _did_ happen to be a tiny voice at the back of his head, suggesting that it might be a good idea to do as he was told, if for no other reason that to avoid any more trouble, and despite all evidence to the contrary, it was promptly silenced and drowned by his haughty Malfoy pride, firmly ingrained in him since the day of his birth.

On the top of that, she had had the nerve to threaten him that if he hadn't finished his half of the room when she came back, he'd be having detentions every night until his hands were raw from scrubbing, and those medals were shining so brightly people could see right from their terraces in Hogsmeade.

"You know what, Draco?" Blaise interrupted as soon as the strict, old Professor had left them alone in the room again and closed the door after her (Professors didn't slam the doors like a teenager, no matter how much they wanted to!), pausing in his work of cleaning with his arms up to the elbows drenched in soapy water. "Sometimes I really dislike you."


End file.
